First Avenue

by Lowen Clausen

  Six o’clock came and Pierre did not unlock the door. A customer pushed on it, expecting it to open. Pierre ignored him and continued making doughnuts. She busied herself away from the door so that customers would not look toward her. At fifteen minutes after six Pierre turned on the front lights and unlocked the door.

  Their first customers were not customers. A dozen or more kids like those who had waited outside filed in and spread out among the empty tables. None came to the counter to order anything. Pierre watched them but said nothing. They divided into small groups. There seemed to be friction among several of them, and their language was often crude.

  Pierre showed her how the cash register worked and stood beside her while she made the first sale. It was very simple. She didn’t need him to stand so close. Besides working the counter, she was to make coffee and keep the tables clean. None of the kids spoke to her, but she knew they were watching.

  Outside, the buses began passing in large numbers. From the north and south, passengers got off at the corner. Some transferred to other buses. Some, working people who carried black lunch buckets or paper lunch sacks, came inside the Donut Shop and picked up a doughnut and a cup of coffee to go. They viewed the kids suspiciously. Maria wondered why Pierre allowed them to stay. They occupied the tables and bought nothing in return. He didn’t seem to be the kind of man who would let them stay for nothing.

  Each time the door opened, she prepared her smile and felt both dismay and relief that it was not the policeman. Sometimes a customer would smile back at her. More often they would not look at her long enough to see her smile or to respond.

  She realized she didn’t know the color of his eyes. The picture in the book was black and white. The other was too far away. He might have changed from the picture. He might have gotten fat or lost his hair. His smile might be different. If he walked through the door, she might not even recognize him.

  That was one reason not to tell her father about the job. She wouldn’t want to explain how she would recognize the policeman. Her father would never understand. She could imagine his reaction. “A job? Where? For what?” That was no way to meet him. “How much will you see if he comes in for a few minutes?” he would ask. What if he doesn’t come in at all? She could hear his arguments as if she had thought of them herself.

  She wished Pierre would stop watching her all the time. He must think she was going to steal his money. Would it help if she told him the truth, if she told him she would work for nothing? Somehow she didn’t think it would help.

  She recognized the old man who closed the door carefully behind him. He had been a customer the day before when she had been the customer, too. He lost his balance for a moment when he turned from the door and changed his direction toward the counter. She was afraid the foot of one young boy might trip him, but the boy pulled his foot out of the aisle just before the old man passed.

  “I’m glad to see you back again, young lady,” he told her. “Have you had a vacation?” He smiled at her practiced smile. He had missed a portion of his cheek in shaving.

  “I think you have me mixed up with somebody else,” Maria said. “I just started today.”

  The old man studied her face more carefully.

  “Oh yes, I guess I have.”

  “What would you like this morning, sir?”

  “A cup of coffee would be good. Oh yes, and one of those twisted things. I like those in the morning.”

  Maria opened the doughnut case and selected the largest cinnamon twist. She put it on a small paper plate, then poured coffee into a plastic cup from the fresher of the two pots warming on the burners. The old man counted change from his coin purse and put the coins on the counter.

  “I believe that is the correct amount,” he said.

  “Yes. Why don’t you sit down, sir. I’ll bring these to you.”

  “Why, thank you. I’ll just sit right over here.”

  He headed for the table closest to the counter. Maria followed him with the coffee and twisted doughnut. If she ever told her father about the job, she could say she took it to help old men to their tables.

  Chapter 10

  Sam waited until seven o’clock to take the boxes to Mr. and Mrs. Sanchez. Sanchez was at the door, as though he had not moved from it, dressed in the same faded denim shirt as the day before. This time Sam did not feel like an intruder.

  Mr. Sanchez moved one of the two chairs close to the bed and sat down on the bed beside his wife. Sam sat in the chair. Already they knew their places.

  “Baby Olivia was not abused,” he began. “She died from dehydration, from lack of water.”

  Sanchez translated to his wife. She nodded slowly that she understood and Sam continued.

  “We don’t know any more about Alberta. She is still missing, but as I said before, I fear something has happened.”

  Again he watched the translation and the solemn nod of understanding. How much more could they take? The process was only beginning. For them it had begun much earlier, he reminded himself.

  “I have papers here for you to sign to receive the body. I’m going to tell you that I think it would be a good idea to have the body cremated before you go back home. Olivia has been dead a long time.”

  It was a suggestion presented at the Coroner’s Office by the deputy in charge. Sam was grateful for it. He realized that if the Sanchezes saw the decomposed and surgically mutilated body, they might never have peace again. He could tell from the tone of her voice that Mrs. Sanchez opposed the idea, but then Mr. Sanchez spoke again and it seemed that the grotesqueness became clear to her. Reluctantly she agreed. Baby Olivia would be cremated.

  “I have a photocopy of a picture of Alberta and the baby,” Sam said. He removed a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket. Markowitz had given it to him earlier in the morning.

  He unfolded it and handed the photocopy to Mrs. Sanchez, who took it from him as delicately as she would a sacred document. She held it with the tips of her fingers and then gently touched the faces of the mother and baby as though she were trying to feel more than a flat, unresponsive surface. Mr. Sanchez looked away with tears in his eyes, but for the longest time Mrs. Sanchez did not move her gaze from the picture. When she did, she was more composed than he thought possible.

  “It’s the only picture we found. I’ll make sure you get the original when the investigation is over.”

  “And that will take some time?” Sanchez asked.

  “Yes. I’m afraid so. There is a good man in charge. Detective Markowitz. You met him.”

  “Yes,” Sanchez said, “and you. You will look after this, too.”

  “Yes,” Sam said. In their trust they reminded him of his parents.

  “I have these forms,” he said, wanting to move away from such thoughts. “You must sign them to approve the cremation.” He flipped through pages on his clipboard and pulled the forms from below. He had not wanted them on top. “It can be done this afternoon. I can arrange that, if you’d like, and bring the ashes back here to you.”

  “That would be kind of you, sir,” Sanchez said, “but the father is here. He will help us with that. You have done much already.”

  “Father? What father?” Sam asked.

  “Our priest, Officer Wright. From the church. He came last night. We’ll go home as soon as we have our baby.”

  “That’s good. That’s good,” Sam repeated.

  “We want to thank you for your help. It is very kind of you to bring the picture.”

  “There’s no need to thank me. We’ll find Alberta, Mr. Sanchez. I promise you that.”

  “I know you will, sir.”

  Now he was making promises. It was easy to make promises sitting beside them in their sorrow-burdened room. It might not be so easy to carry them out when he left.

  “The Father wishes to have a service for our baby on Friday,” Sanchez said. “There is no need to wait. We would like you to come if you are not busy.”

  “I’m not busy,”
Sam said. “What time will it be?”

  “Two o’clock. At St. Anthony’s church. I can give you directions to the church.”

  “No, that’s all right. I’ll find it.”

  “Yes. A policeman from a big city can find his way around in our small town. Seattle is too big for us. We are ready to go home.”

  “I understand.”

  Mr. Sanchez spoke briefly to his wife. Sam realized she had followed most of their conversation without translation. She asked a question directly to Sam, but Sam had to look to Mr. Sanchez for help.

  “My wife wishes to know if you have children?” Sanchez asked.

  “No,” he said to her. “I was married once, but the marriage did not work. We had no children,” he felt obliged to explain.

  “But you’re a young man, still,” Sanchez said.

  “I’m not so young anymore.”

  “Young man,” Mrs. Sanchez said in English and patted his hand with one she had released from the picture.

  When he and Sanchez went out to the car for the boxes, he could smell the death odor from the trunk. He decided not to mention it. They already knew more about death than he could ever explain. As Sam drove off, Mrs. Sanchez stood with her husband at the door and waved. She still held the picture.

  The morning light was unusually bright. As he crossed the Aurora Bridge on his way back to First Avenue, he felt a need to slow down and take in the sights that presented themselves on all sides—mountains east and west and Mount Rainier beyond the city to the south. Below him, bare-masted sailboats plowed through the ship canal connecting Lake Washington and Puget Sound. The boats were on their way to the Ballard Locks, which would lower them to sea level and salt water. The weather was warm and he had the window down. He wanted to feel the warm air and have it carry away the odor trapped in the trunk.

  He found himself thinking of a special set of words. They were not words of his own, or words from the worn kind voices of Mr. and Mrs. Sanchez, or from Gabriel the frightened Eskimo. The words came from the poet. He could almost hear Alberta’s voice reading them out loud. “How do you like to go up in a swing, up in the air so blue?” He would be happy if he could write words like that, words that made you think of someplace else.

  Chapter 11

  It was the second consecutive day that Sam had made the backstairs trip to Homicide. He carried a file folder that he had dug out of the seldom-explored pockets of his briefcase. Inside the folder, he had arranged the homicide reports. On top was the only copy of an Officer Statement from his brief and tenuous encounter with Gabriel Romanov.

  Markowitz folded the newspaper he had been reading and laid it on his desk. He did not look cheerful. Sam wondered if he was becoming impatient with these morning interruptions.

  “Thought you might be interested in this,” Sam said as he placed the Romanov statement in front of Markowitz.

  Markowitz picked up the single page and rocked back in his chair.

  “Kind of sounds like our guy, Pierre what’s-his-name,” Markowitz said.

  “It is Pierre,” Sam said. “We ought to compare his fingerprints with the ones you found in the room.”

  “Yes. We should, and we tried, but we can’t. We don’t have his prints on file.”

  “So, we’ll get them.”

  “Sure. I’ll just drop by this morning and ask him to be a good citizen and give us a set of fingerprints so that we can tie him into this homicide.”

  “I don’t think he’s a citizen,” Sam said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He claims he’s French—makes a big deal out of that. His fingerprints must be on file someplace.”

  “I’ll check with Immigration and see if they have anything,” Markowitz said.

  “Maybe we could get his prints from one of those greasy doughnuts he makes.”

  “Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Markowitz said. “Get him to serve you something in a glass, then sneak out with it.”

  “We can do that?”

  “Sure. Tell me,” Markowitz said, as he peered once more at Sam’s written statement, “did this Mr. Romanov say anything about other visitors?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing about any young fellows?”

  “No.”

  “Did you read the paper this morning?” Markowitz asked.

  “Some of it.”

  “Did you read this?” Markowitz pushed the newspaper toward Sam and pointed to a small headline buried inside. Publisher’s Son Drowns.

  Sam had not read the article. It was two paragraphs long. Ben Abbott, the son of Mildred Abbott, publisher of the Seattle Tribune, and the late Ralph Abbott, had drowned Monday night in a boating accident in Lake Washington. Divers continued to search for his body.

  “Got a call from this Mrs. Abbott’s lawyer at eight sharp this morning. This wasn’t a boating accident. The story given to the patrol guys was that the kid was high on dope and jumped off the boat, but it’s not a very good story. Mrs. Abbott says her son was an excellent swimmer.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Sam asked.

  “Because, according to the lawyer, this Abbott kid might have been Olivia’s father.”

  “You have to be kidding.”

  “No. Mrs. Abbott knew about Alberta Sanchez, but not about the baby. Not until yesterday.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “I think the patrol guys screwed up when they took the report. They believed the accident story.”

  “So what are you going to do? Check out the boat?” Sam asked.

  “Can’t. It burned. Six o’clock this morning at the Seattle Yacht Club.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Sam repeated.

  “You can say that again,” Markowitz said. “They usually take better care of their boats.”

  “Ben Abbott,” Sam said. He tried to remember if he had ever heard that name before. He didn’t think so, but he knew the Abbott name well enough. Most people in Seattle knew that name.

  “What would a rich kid like Abbott be doing with Alberta Sanchez?”

  “Don’t know. Sure like to find out, though. Apparently Mrs. Abbott is too grieved to talk right now. So says the lawyer. We have to give her a little more time to collect herself.”

  “What’s the name of the lawyer?” Sam asked.

  “Mayes or Hayes—something like that. Bigshot firm downtown. Why? What difference does it make who it is?”

  “Just wondering, that’s all.”

  Chapter 12

  It was a strange business, Maria thought, when most of the customers bought nothing. Mr. Polanski would have trouble making money in his drugstore if kids stood in the aisles all day so that paying customers could not get by. Would these kids stay all day?

  Bill arrived for work ten minutes after ten. She knew it must be him by the way he walked into the kitchen. Her smile was wasted as he silently passed her. Pierre said nothing to him about being late, although he had made a big point of telling her to be on time when he hired her. Pierre did not introduce them, either. He must not have thought it was important for them to know each other.

  Bill put on a dirty white apron that was hanging on a hook beside the sink and immediately began washing doughnut pans. Pierre walked over beside him. Both had their backs to Maria. Pierre spoke to Bill in a voice too low for her to understand.

  “I go upstairs for a while,” Pierre told her as he walked up to the cash register. He stopped and pointed his finger up as though that would explain everything. “If you have questions, you can ask him.”

  She turned around to look at Bill. He did not look at her, and she doubted she would have any questions.

  “You can sit down for a while if you want. Eat a doughnut. Take care of customers when they come.”

  “Thank you,” she found herself saying, then thinking it ridiculous.

  “Sure. Maybe one of the cinnamon twists.” His voice softened slightly. Perhaps he remembered she was not one of the kids asking for free dough
nuts. “They came out good this time.”

  She nodded, but there were no words from her this time. His dark bloodshot eyes scanned the room. Secretly the kids watched him, but they pretended otherwise. It was uncomfortable and strange the way they watched everything.

  “No free doughnuts today,” he said as he walked past their tables. “Tomorrow maybe. No more today.”

  About half the kids left after Pierre. Those who stayed were content to look out the window and do nothing more. There was less friction among the holdovers.

  She got a carton of milk from the refrigerator and sat down at the table closest to the cash register. It felt good to be off her feet. She was hungry but had no interest in the doughnuts or the cinnamon twists. Tomorrow, if there were a tomorrow here, she would bring something to eat.

  Tomorrow she would decide what to do. She would call her father again. He wouldn’t be happy that she hadn’t called for several days, but he wouldn’t have been happy if she had called either.

  Bill came up to her table. He had already taken his apron off. “Going out for a smoke,” he said. His voice was so flat that it didn’t sound human. He didn’t hesitate for her reply. Outside on the sidewalk, he stood at the corner a moment, then disappeared down the street. What kind of business was this? What would happen if she walked out the door, too?

  When she saw the blue uniform in the west window, she rose to her feet and froze. The blue uniform went past the north window and arrived at the door. She recognized him the instant he stepped inside. She would have recognized him even if she had not looked at the picture a thousand times. With impossible difficulty she looked away from him, walked softly to the cash register, and waited.

  He walked slowly toward her through the occupied tables, looked at each one of the nervous kids, and sat down at the counter. He stood his radio upright in front of him. She stood a little taller and smoothed the sleeve of her white blouse. Her mother had told her she could never go wrong with a clean white blouse. He looked into her eyes and smiled.

  “I’ll have a cup of coffee.”